Ingenium
by Kris-Motionless
Summary: Harry had always known that he was above average. What he had not known was just how much he exceeded expectations. This story is also on ao3 (Archive of Our Own for those of you who don't know) under a different username, but the same story title.
1. Chapter 1

I've taken many liberties with this, but as expected, Harry Potter does not belong to me. Everything in the Harry Potter universe and stuff is all JK Rowling's. I am merely a nerd with a gay heart and a thing for Severitus (not Snarry although I do love that too). Anyway, if you're into powerful Harry who is also rather brilliant, you've come to the right place. Also, there's drarry so...

Harry sighed as he stared up at the ceiling of his cupboard, reflecting on his day. It had become a habit for the dark haired boy to ponder his daily happenings each night, allowing him to analyze each moment and calculate improvement. July 23rd, 1991 had not been a bad day, though it had also not been his best. He had perfected a new recipe for the Dursleys' breakfast menu, which they had all appreciated despite their lack of gratitude. The meal had, in consideration for Dudley's new diet which Harry had advised, excluded meat with nitrates or high fat concentration, as well as provided nutritious vegetables with disguised tastes. Harry was sure to calculate every calorie accurately before each meal-he was Dudley's personal nutritionist-as cooked accordingly. He had yet to receive any thanks for his troubles, but he did not expect any and he learned from a young age not waste concern on matters that he could not change.

After expanding his mental list of suitable recipes, the young boy retreated to his cupboard while silently reciting a chapter from the novel _Ender's Game_ which he had quickly read when he was six after sneaking off to the library. Harry was what one would consider a genius. His IQ, unbeknownst to anyone, was 187 and was accompanied by a photographic memory. Unconsciously, Harry memorized every book he read, most of which required less than an hour for him to complete. Verbatim enumerations relaxed Harry and prevented him from focussing on the immediate future to which he was forced to resign himself. Silently, Harry recalled the words: _"And the despair filled him again. Now he knew why. Now he knew what he hated so much. He had no control over his own life. They ran everything. They made all the choices. Only the game was left to him, that was all, everything else was them and their rules and plans and lessons and programs, and all he could do was go this way or that way in battle"_ (Card 151). Harry cherished the novel more than anything. He had read and loved countless books, without his relatives' knowledge of course, but _Ender's Game_ was by far his favorite. He could relate to Ender, could appreciate the character's loneliness, fear, self-loathing, and brilliance. Harry always felt that the characters in books were worth more than living people. Real people were cruel and unforgiving, but fictional people were friends.

A banging sound had awoken Harry from his reverie and, by sheer force of habit, the boy removed himself from his own mind. "Mind your chores, boy!" Uncle Vernon had shouted from the other side of the cupboard. "We don't keep freaks who are too lazy to earn their stay!"

The dark haired boy had sighed, and collected himself quickly before heading outside to complete the yard work in the daylight. He always completed the outdoor work first for the sake of efficiency. Indoor chores could be finished by artificial light, outdoor chores could not.

So progressed his day as usual. Nothing remarkable had occurred. He had weeded the garden, pruned the flowers, watered the plants, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the trees and bushes to perfect shape. As usual, he completed the outdoor chores in only a few hours before returning to the gloriously air conditioned house. As usual, he set off to do the laundry, sweep and mop the hardwood floors, vacuum the carpets, prepare a healthy lunch for the Dursleys, wash the dishes, dust the furniture, and tend to the overall upkeep of the house in which he was unwelcome. Thus, he earned his keep.

He decided, from the safety of his familiar cupboard, that there was not much on which to reflect that day. Uncle Vernon had not been particularly violent, aside from the usual slap or knock, and neither had he been unconventionally drunk or stone-cold sober. Aunt Petunia had not been remarkably vicious in her verbal encounters with him that day either. Apart from the expected mutters of his "freakiness", she had remained too busy to bother him with unnecessary abuse that day. Dudley was, well, Dudley. He was gone most of the day, no doubt wreaking havoc on the neighborhood and terrorizing smaller boys with his gang. He returned to play cruel pranks on Harry and purposely sabotage his handiwork, requiring him to revisit several chores. Of course, Harry expected no less and had come to plan it into his schedule. He had developed said schedule over the years, making slight revisions when necessary, but sticking to it usually in order to complete each task sufficiently and timely.

The ordinary nature of the day did not strike Harry as any reason to spend time analyzing it. Harry proceeded to get some much needed sleep to recuperate after another arduous day.

His days would not remain ordinary for much longer.

Harry awoke early on July 24th, rising right on schedule at precisely 5:30 in the morning for optimum efficiency. Each morning, at 5:30, Harry would dress in his tattered hand-me-downs, collect the mail, and prepare breakfast for the Dursleys after forcefully choking down the urge to cook a portion for himself as well. Uncle Vernon rose at precisely 6:15 every morning, by which time Harry must be finished his morning routine and breakfast must already be hot and on the table. Or else.

It was a simple enough routine for one who was as accustomed to it as Harry was. As usual, Harry collected the mail and sorted it into piles: one for matters of utmost importance, one for matters of less importance, one for matters of no importance, and one for matters unfamiliar. As with many of the efficient workings of the Dursley household, the pile idea had originated from Harry, though Vernon would claim its brilliance.

Everything seemed normal about July 24, 1991, except for one small detail. There was a strange letter in the mail that day. It was not strange in its origin, although Harry indeed had never seen its like. The strange part about it was its address.

 _Mr. H Potter. The Cupboard under the Stairs. 4 Privet Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey._

The letter was addressed to him. It had to be. Harry was unfamiliar with another "H. Potter." Who had sent it? Why did they send it? Harry did not have friends. Surely, it was not a birthday party invitation or a polite update on the wellbeing of an accomplice. No, this was an entirely foreign letter, both in origin and in purpose. Sparing a glance at the clock, Harry realized it was already 5:45. He would need to hurry with breakfast preparations. Quickly stuffing the odd letter into the waistband of his tattered jeans, Harry put on the kettle and began to prepare breakfast.

At precisely 6:17, Vernon Dursley stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, sparing no thanks to the boy who prepared his meal as he plopped himself into his chair. "What are you doing standing there, boy? Serve me," the vile creature spat. Harry repeated the memorized lines of _Ender's Game_ to keep himself calm, knowing what was in store for him.

 _"Ender sat in a corner of the battleroom, his arm hooked through a hand-hold, watching Bean practice with his squad"_ (Card 202).

"Yes, sir," Harry quietly replied, knowing better than to look into the face of his relative lest he be on the receiving end of the belt currently threatening to slip off Vernon's abnormally large waist. Moving swiftly, Harry wordlessly poured the steaming tea into an overly fancy mug and set it in front of his uncle. After one particularly hard-learned lesson, Harry knew better than to pause in serving the food. With no hesitation, Harry served Vernon with two slices of buttered toast, three fried eggs-slightly underdone just as Vernon liked them-, two crispy pieces of bacon, and three overdone sausages-exactly to Vernon's taste. Despite the perfection of the meal, Vernon's hand unsurprisingly found its way to Harry's face in a load backhand, just as Harry knew it would.

"Boy," Vernon grunted, "why have you only given me three sausages?" Harry knew not to answer. "I wanted four."

 _"Yesterday they had worked on attacks without guns, disarming enemies with their feet"_ (Card 202).

"Yes, sir," Harry responded respectfully, eyes still not meeting Vernon's as he served another sausage. It was the same every day, odd letter or no. Just like every day, Aunt Petunia stomped gracelessly into the kitchen at 6:30, promptly followed by a miserable-looking Dudley.

"Mummy," Dudley whined, "can't the freak just stay in the cupboard?" Petunia, just like every day, smiled sickeningly at her son, though her face still scrunched up as if she had smelled something rancid.

"No, Duddikins, the freak has to cook us breakfast. But he can leave now," she spat the last part pointedly at Harry, who quickly took his leave without sparing even a glance at the meal he knew he couldn't have.

 _"Ender had helped them with some techniques from gravity personal combat-many things had to be changed, but inertia in flight was a tool that could be used against the enemy as easy in nullo as in Earth gravity"_ (Card 202).

Harry sighed. If only he could just enter null gravity as well, he could float away from the Dursleys and learn space combat and attend Battle School and join Dragon Army and... Harry's thoughts trailed off. Ender was a fictional character in a fictional world. It would not do for Harry to want the things he knew he would never get. Instead of reciting _Ender's Game_ to put his thought in order, Harry recited pi.

3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481 117450284102701938521...

From the quiet darkness of his cupboard, Harry silently retrieved the mystery letter from his jeans. He had no light in which to read the words, but a strange excitement filled him just from touching the object of his curiosity. After laboring in the Dursleys house, completing his chores under Petunia's unforgiving scrutiny, Harry finally could read the letter.

Grasping the torch which he kept stored beside his pitiful excuse for a mattress-he had placed the torch there months ago due to his irrational fear of the darkness-Harry flicked on the light and broke the seal of the letter.

He took barely a second to peruse the words splattered in fancy handwriting on the parchment, storing the lines in his vast memory and processing the information. The letter read:

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Deputy Headmistress._

Well, that was certainly quite an invitation. Harry was unsure what to make of it, and thus proceeded as he always did when he was uncertain. First, he assessed his situation and considered his options. In this case, he analyzed the document in his hands, particularly its legitimacy.

Whoever sent it-Minerva McGonagall apparently-obviously knew his name. How, he didn't know, but the point was moot. He decided he would question the "hows" later and would instead focus on the "whats" and "whys" first. The biggest question in Harry's mind was the school. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That certainly made a statement. Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Apart from the stirs over witches in the 17th century, prominently the Salem Witch Trials, Harry was unaware of common witch practice. Obviously, he knew that there were those who believed unfoundedly in magic and "practiced witchcraft" in their spare time, but Harry did not believe in that. He did not believe that burning candles in a pentagram would summon spirits. He did not believe that any force of man could change fate. He did not believe in anything that could not be supported by irrefutable science. Certainly, witchcraft was not irrefutable science. Besides that, Harry was positive that he, himself, did not practice magic and he had no intention of beginning, even if such a thing existed. Which is didn't. Therefore, this letter must be faulty.

Still, foolishly, Harry held onto some kind of childish hope and continued his analysis. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry was not blind to the lack of mention of price, which was always a sure sign that it was expensive. It was an advertising trick: interest the customer so much so that, when the monumental price is named, it is of little importance. Therefore, the school was either expensive or nonexistent. Harry assumed the latter.

As the letter stated, a list of necessary items indeed was included. However, the necessary equipment and books were ridiculous. The uniform included Halloween attire: black robes, a pointed hat, and "dragon hide" gloves-all of which would make him look like a fictional character stepping straight out of a Tim Burton movie. None of the required books included any classic literature, or even remote literature.

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk, _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot, _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling, _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch, _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore, _Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Schamander, _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble.

Harry did not have the faintest clue what drugs were involved in the formulation of this list-this letter even-but whatever they were, if drugs did not scramble thought and immobilize functional brain activity, Harry would already be researching where to find them. Honestly, the only one on the list that could possibly be real was _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ because beasts actually did exist. Magic did not. Transfiguration, Harry assumed, was close enough to alchemy to be possible, but even true alchemy was a myth.

Harry decided to move on. A thorough investigation of all possible intentions of this letter was in order. Thus, he recounted the "other equipment" that this alleged school required.

One wand, one cauldron (pewter, standard size 2), one set of glass or crystal phials, one telescope, one set of brass scales, and a cat or a toad or an owl.

Harry didn't even know where to start with how ridiculous this list was. A wand, which Harry assumed would be for casting "spells", was unnecessary because Harry could not perform magic. Magic was not real. Harry reasoned that the cauldron would be for brewing "magical potions" with pixie dust and tea leaves, but it was the pewter that caught Harry's attention. Harry was well familiar with chemistry and was fascinated with metals and materials. Pewter was a metal alloy, consisting of copper, antimony, and tin, though prior to the mid-1700s when they discovered the health and tarnishing hazards, lead was also a component. Tin, which makes up roughly 92% of pewter, creates the malleability while the copper and antimony add strength and durability. That was not the interesting part about pewter. It stuck Harry as one of the oddest materials for a cauldron-assumed to be for brewing something-because pewter has a rather low melting point. For the standard cauldron of first year students, this could prove hazardous for those less educated on the properties of pewter. Harry supposed the somewhat poor choice of cauldron had something to do with the potential chemical interferences with the "potion" ingredients. Perhaps a more durable metal, such as steel, would react differently with different components.

This was, of course, under the assumption that this farce letter was not sent by an inept idiot unfamiliar with the curious information it contained.

The rest of the materials did nothing to intrigue Harry, though the pet owl was interesting. It references back to the letter, which read that the response was to be owled. Perhaps a trained owl was to perform delivery services, though Harry doubted that. In fact, he doubted that an owl could be so well trained.

So brought Harry to his next observation. The expectation for a response was only seven days away, and Harry knew he would need longer than that to ponder whether or not he would attend this... whatever it was.

It was probably just a ploy to rob parents of their money while blaming it on someone else. Something like Santa Claus.

Harry decided that, whatever this school/insane asylum/drug dealer wanted, he would not partake. He had no desire to be implicated in a scam to steal the Dursleys' money. He hated to think of the repercussions; it was doubtful he would ever walk again. No.

Harry Potter would not be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunday: July 28, 1991

It was not the practice of the Dursleys to grant Harry Potter a day of rest. In fact, Harry was unsure if he had had a day of rest since the day he could walk. Birthdays, holidays, Sundays, it did not matter to the Dursleys. Days were days and work always needed to be done. Of course, it was beneath the privilege of normality for the Dursleys to actually complete the daily chores presented, and as such, it fell to the Freak to make sure the house ran functionally. Should he fail at this tasks, the punishment fell on his back, as well as his legs, arms, head, shoulders, chest, and anywhere deemed painful enough during Vernon Dursley's drunken stupor.

That was where Harry Potter found himself that Sunday afternoon. The sun baked his neck as he weeded the garden in the late morning, grasping at a firmly rooted _Plantago major_ , which stubbornly refused to leave the soil. Harry sighed, recalling facts about _Plantago major_ from a gardening book he read when outdoor work became a common chore for him. He found that agricultural techniques and botanical knowledge prevented him from focussing on the labor he performed and generally calmed his frustration. _Plantago major,_ commonly referred to as broadleaf plantain, belonged to family of Plantaginaceae and was native to Europe and some parts of Asia. _Plantago majoy,_ however, was commonly found in many parts of the world due to its naturalization in so many regions. Broadleaf plantain was a perennial weed, though occasionally could behave as an annual or a biennial. Its habitat mainly consisted of vineyards, orchards, gardens, urban sites, and other disturbed locations, but what fascinated Harry was its ability to survive. Not only was it a stubborn perennial, but it could thrive in habitats where most plants and weeds would die such as compacted or excessively moist environments. Despite the difficulty with which broadleaf plantains were removed, Harry enjoyed the comparison they made. Like _Plantago major,_ Harry continued to thrive in uninhabitable circumstances, where other children might just give up. Like _Plantago major_ , Harry was a curse of nature that ruined the Dursley family, similarly to how broadleaf plantain disturbs surrounding plants. Like _Plantago major,_ there was an unfortunate number of people who wished him dead.

Harry regretfully recalled how Dudley had sneered at him the day before, accompanied by the compassionate words, "Go away, _Freak_! Piers and me don't _want_ you here. I wish you would just _die_ , Freak." It had taken all of Harry's self-control, manners, and instincts towards self-preservation not to correct Dudley's grammar.

Of course, death wishes did little to disturb Harry these days. Anymore, threats or desires to eradicate the vermin in the cupboard under the stairs was like a welcome home. However, that did not mean that words didn't ever bother Harry. It was quite the opposite.

Words, Harry knew, carried power like nothing else. The common, childhood phrase "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" was juvenile, naïve, and outstandingly incorrect. Words were a venomous weapon, wielding the power to inflict not only hurtful opinion but to allow the manifestation of self-hatred in others. Words could be twisted into deceit, arranged into insult, and sugarcoated into any form of danger. Words, too often in Harry's life, were used as a torture method to remind him that he was a burden, that his parents were useless lowlives, that the Dursleys hated him, and that he deserved the physical pain that inevitably followed the words. Words were often much worse than blows. Wounds would heal, words would fester into a form of loathing that would forever remain.

For this reason, Harry was invariably careful with his words. He had no desire to leave anyone with the lack of self-worth he possessed, and thus thought it prudent to hold his tongue. If he had nothing nice to say, or otherwise was unable to voice his thoughts, he would remain silent.

Consequently, he was surprised by his current desire to lash out with his tongue and dish out every insult in his vocabulary. He was overwhelmed with a passionate hatred and, in his rage, felt the burning need to voice every Shakespearean insult he knew which were, with his superior brain capacity, numerous. In his mind, he was well aware that his opinions were unwelcome to the Dursleys and that to speak them would be considered, in the vernacular of street thugs, an astronomical fuck up. However, Harry could not help himself as he listened to Petunia Dursley rant about his family.

"Your mother was a freak of nature, just like you are. She could not keep her freakiness to herself, always showing it off like a show pony with that _boy_ she always hung out with. Scum, the both of them. She was a whore, a drunk, and you were a mistake. She never meant to have you but, like the slut she was, she got pregnant with another freak and died in a drunken car accident," Petunia raved. Harry was unsure what his mother's "freakiness" was, but at that point, he hardly thought it mattered. He had been biting on his tongue hard enough to draw blood until the words flowed from his mouth and he was left powerless to stop them.

"Do not talk about my mother like that, you equine disgrace to all human specimen. You are a foul, loathsome cockroach and your ability to reproduce is unfathomable to me. It's amusing but, considering the research, I never though interspecies mating was possible. However, it seems horses and whales can crossbreed to create a hybrid known to some as Dudley. Such a creature is indigenous to hell, which is located just north of Vernon Dursley's genitalia, and its inhabitants are considered the most fetid, vile, corpulent, and barbarous of creatures. You, Petunia Dusley, do not deserve to be called my mother's sister. You do not deserve to be called my aunt. You do not deserve to even be called a mother. You are the worst sort of person, inflicting pain on those whom you consider to be lesser, those who are powerless to stop you, and those whose intelligence is far superior to your own. You are abusive to children and should be nothing but a victim of the law, but you are too good a liar to be subjected to it. You make me sick," Harry practically spat the last sentence, overly aware that his words could very well cost him his life. It had felt wondrous to finally voice what he had always thought, but he knew that a spectacular beating would follow his words. Running would prove useless, he knew, because he could not prevent the inevitable.

He closed his eyes, sucked in an enormous breath, and prepared himself for pain. Silently soothing himself, Harry began to recite.

 _"I am not a happy man, Ender. Humanity does not ask us to be happy. It merely asks us to be brilliant on its behalf. Survival first, then happiness as we can manage it."_

 _Survival first._

 _Survival first._

 _Survival first._

The words echoed in Harry's head as he felt an unnatural snap in his nose, blood beginning to pour from the nostrils. Mentally, Harry recoiled into his brain, his thoughts becoming a sanctuary to block out the worst of his pain. He vaguely felt the kick to his stomach, but it did not fully register as he immersed himself in his mind.

" _I think that most of us, anyway, read these stories that we know are not "true" because we're hungry for another kind of truth: the mythic truth about human nature in general, the particular truth about those life-communities that define our own identity, and the most specific truth of all: our own self-story. Fiction, because it is not about someone who lived in the real world, always has the possibility of being about oneself."_

A kick, this time right near Harry's ear, broke him out of his reverie. Pain exploded all over his body as blows from which Harry had mentally shielded himself registered. Too Another kick to the back of his knee. Another kick to his sternum. Another kick to his right thigh.

" _An enemy, Ender Wiggin," whispered the old man. "I am your enemy, the first one you've ever had who was smarter than you. There is no teacher but the enemy. No one but the enemy will tell you what the enemy is going to do. No one but the enemy will ever teach you how to destroy and conquer. Only the enemy shows you where you are weak. Only the enemy tells you where he is strong. And the rules of the game are what you can do to him and what you can stop him from doing to you. I am your enemy from now on. From now on I am your teacher."_

A punch to Harry's left eye.

" _Human beings may be miserable specimens, in the main, but we can learn, and, through learning, become decent people."_

Harry felt his right hand burn as Petunia forced a clothes iron onto it, drawing a scream from Harry's lips. It suddenly became too much. Words echoed in his head as Vernon shouted obscenities at him, but Harry could hardly hear them. All he could hear was blood pumping as his vision began to blur with his right hand in unprecedented pain. Black collected at the corners of his eyesight, slowly closing in as unconsciousness claimed him.

Wednesday: July 31, 1991

Harry awoke with dried tears on his cheeks. It was an uncommon occurrence for Harry to cry himself to sleep, but the last several nights had been some of the worst Harry could remember. He had received beatings every day since he had mouthed off to his aunt, and he blacked out during each one. His unconscious state did nothing to slow any of the Dursleys in their abuse, and they continued to hit and kick him until he woke up, sore and exhausted several hours later. The Dursleys did not care the pain Harry was in, of course, and shoved an advil into his hand to swallow without water before ordering him to finish his chores. Harry didn't think he had cried so much in his entire life as his hand, wrapped poorly in an old tee shirt, blossomed with renewed pain each chore he did. At 5:30 on July 31, Harry sat up gingerly, every nerve in his body screaming for him not to move, and forced his way painfully to collect the mail. He recognized another letter had been sent by that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Sighing, Harry tore this letter again, the same way he had done for all of the previous letters save the first. He did want to keep the first mail he had ever received, even if it was just a scam.

With an obvious limp, Harry hobbled into the kitchen and put the kettle on, careful to avoid the stove as memories of the iron rushed into his mind. He knew the psychology behind it, but he was still surprised when he felt fresh pain sear through his hand in response to his thoughts. Quickly diverting his attention to lessen the pain, Harry once again focussed on the task at hand. Breakfast for the Dursleys.

The Freak sighed. Another long day in hell.

Harry was usually quite sure in himself. He was confident in his ability to analyze situations, he was proud of his reaction speed, he was always aware of his surroundings, and he prided himself in his broad knowledge of the important things in his life. However, there were situations to which Harry did not know how to respond. For instance, in Year 2, a teacher had told him that he was "born to be a shrink, and I do not like or trust shrinks." In that moment, Harry had blinked, smiled, and run off before his discomfort became anything more than discomfort.

That day, July 31, Harry felt like he was back in primary school; he did not know what exactly to think. There was a man on the Dursleys' porch, of that he was certain. However, that was the only fact that was absolute in that moments. His observations were sound, he knew, but his conclusions were quite another story.

Smooth, greasy, black hair curtained the man's face, which appeared pallid and almost cadaverous. A scowl outlined the man's features with deep crinkles that Harry could tell came from years of practicing that expression. The man, though thin and almost gangly, appeared to be wrapped in so many layers that it was impossible not to wonder how the seemingly frail man managed to stand. His attire did nothing to give him a more approachable appearance. Long, black robes buttoned nearly all the way down his tall form with a collar partially covering his neck, under which a white collar peeked out. Beneath the robe, he wore black trousers and black, durable boots. Over that, a voluminous cape draped impressively over his shoulders. Harry could not decide exactly what emotion this stranger evoked; fear, perhaps, but then also a touch of familiarity.

"Am I to stand on your porch all day, Mr. Potter?" The man drawled, apparently unimpressed by Harry's manners.

Politely, to avoid unwanted attention, Harry replied, "My apologies, sir, but are we expecting you?"

An odd emotion flashed on the man's face before it was quickly, seamlessly replaced with the apathetic expression, "You should be, considering the fact that we have not yet received any sort of notification that you will attend Hogwarts."

Suddenly, Harry understood. This must be a representative for the scam. Or perhaps, not scam. He knew, however, that this could not be that McGonagall person because this man did not look much like a deputy headmistress. Harry decided it was probably best that he played along with the man's charade as he appeared dangerous when provoked. Harry had enough self-preservation to know when to pretend to agree.

"I was uncertain if I should respond or not and how, if I was to answer, I would go about sending the letter. There was no postal stamp or address."

The man sighed, as if he was growing impatient. Harry did not doubt that he probably was, but he did not know what to do about it. "No reply is required. You must simply maintain the intention to attend and retrieve the necessary supplies from Diagon Alley. It is hardly complicated."

Harry was curious despite himself. _This is definitely an elaborate scam if they went through all that trouble to come up with a store name._

"Now," the man began, "may I enter your home? I do not want to remain in the sight of prying muggles for an extended period of time."

"Not yet, sir. First, I must know your name." Harry knew that he was in a position to negotiate and he intended to take full advantage of that fact.

The man sighed audibly before responding, "My name is Professor Severus Snape."

Harry's mind suddenly twisted into loops. Severus Snape. This man was Severus Snape.

He would know that name anywhere from the only memory of his mother that existed in his superior mind: the night of her death. He remembered his mother's gentle face as she placed him softly into his crib, tears in her eyes but none spilling over her cheeks. He remembered how she whispered softly to him in a choked voice, "Mommy has to say goodbye, Harry, but we must trust Severus. Severus Snape will care for you. I love you, my son." Harry's eyes became sharper and his head clearer.

 _My mother trusted this man. I trust my mother. By the transitive property, I must trust this man. Severus Snape._

Without pausing to further contemplate his actions, Harry stepped aside. "Come in, Severus Snape."

I do apologize if this chapter seems short. I couldn't figure out where to end it without being too long. This chapter was somewhat filler, but it will lead into more.


	3. Chapter 3

I tried to make everything as accurate as possible, and many of the ancient practices and history and everything I did research and crosscheck, but I would advise you to just accept it in my reality. Some of it is probably made up, but that's why it's fanfiction. I did my best.

Side note: Please excuse any American spellings. I did my best, but I'm just so used to writing in American English. Some people are anal. Please forgive me.

Chapter Text

July 31, 1991

Severus Snape had introduced himself as a professor. Harry found footing in that idea, as a professor is a respectable and educated position. Surely, someone who had his mother's trust as well as a position of such superiority must be a man of good standing. Of course, Harry had to account for the fact that people like Genghis Khan and Mao Tse Tung were well respected in their times as well, even if it was for the sheer fact that a person would be slaughtered should he not respect respect them. Although, the Freak consented, the man's behavior did not dictate violence, simply frustration. The man's eyes, and hardened black shade, appeared to assess the boy in front of him with some form of distain. The expression did not offend the Freak; he was accustomed to disgust. In fact, he was so used to it that he did not allow himself to become too lost in his thoughts, contemplating scientific theories and mathematical calculations and historical actualities, simply because he was too busy analyzing the potentially dangerous behavior of his relatives. He had become quite adept at reading people, and he truly did not believe Severus Snape to be a threat to his physical wellbeing.

"Professor, may I offer you anything?" Harry remembered his manners. Vernon and Petunia did not appreciate the Freak's lapse in manners when it came to business partners and otherwise respected guests. The Boy would do well to remember how to treat visitors of the Dursleys. Logically, Harry reasoned that no friend of his mother's would willingly visit Petunia's family. Petunia loathed her sister, hence the Freak's injured hand. From Harry's few excursions to the library, he estimated that his hand would require about three weeks to heal, and that he would probably be left with scarring and possible numbness. Of course, none of the books he could find contained any information on the consequences of leaving the burn untreated, but he knew that he could not attempt the healing methods the books suggested. The Dursleys would notice if he used any of their medical supplies, and then he would have far more to worry about than a stinging hand.

"No, Mr. Potter, I do not require any sustenance. I do, however, require a proper explanation as to why you do not intend to attend Hogwarts." Harry snapped his attention back to the man, mentally scolding himself for losing focus. _Idiot. He could have raised his hand to beat you and you would not have known to duck._

Harry thought quickly. Severus Snape, though trusted by his mother, could not be vouched for by Harry and as such could not be trusted with any explanations Harry had to offer. Besides that, the man appeared to be rather formidable, and Harry-a scrawny eleven-year-old-was an easy target. He did not want to anger the professor by admitting that he did not believe that any such school existed. Nor did he wish to let on that his relatives were cruel and that they would not allow him to attend any school with the word "wizardry" in its title. To speak of their abuse was only to ask for more, from Harry's experiences. It was better to lie. Harry knew that lying was irrational; every psychology textbook containing information on lying-particularly compulsive and pathological lying-explained how, despite human beliefs that lying would ultimately bring benefit, we lie simply because we wish to see ourselves in a different light. Lying was not rational because it could not bring benefit to a human person, and thus we believe that we are helping ourselves when we are not. Harry was aware of the phenomenon. However, he also knew that lying produced short-term benefits, and all that he required was a short-term goal. He wanted Severus Snape to leave the Dursleys, without suspecting anything amiss, and he wanted to forget about the supposed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He would address the long-term effects of his lie later.

"I did not wish to leave my relatives, sir. You see, I have already been provided with a school to attend. I did not want to alter their plans so unexpectedly," the falsehood slipped off his tongue like poisoned honey. If the man believed that he did not wish to abandon his relatives, perhaps he would not punish him harshly. Perhaps he would not suspect Harry's doubt at the existence of the "school."

"Surely, they had made arrangements for your education, given that it would be improper for a wizard such as yourself to receive muggle schooling." The emotions on the man's cadaverous face remained carefully concealed, though Harry thought to have glimpsed a flash of disgust. Well, that would not be all to surprising. Most people took disgust to Harry, particularly in regards to education. Harry's relatives maintained the notion that Harry was born with the brain of an ox, especially considering the marks Harry made a point of lowering. He could not risk receiving better marks than Dudley, for the sake of the skin on his back. He was rewarded for the reduction with jeers, but he decided that that was much better than the price he would have paid had he not done so.

"I apologize if you find their arrangements less than satisfactory, sir, but I do not intend to change my mind. Stonewall High will suit me just fine, I think," Harry felt compelled to reply. If this man had any intent upon making his life needlessly difficult with this school, Harry must disabuse him of the notion that he wanted to attend. Indeed, he doubted very much that the school existed in the first place. Witchcraft defied science, as evidenced repeatedly throughout the past several centuries. Ritualistic witch hunts served no purpose except to humor a belief and decrease the surplus population.

"Stonewall High? Hm...a muggle institution no doubt. Mr. Potter, I will respect your wishes to attend this...school should you grant me one favor in return."

"Yes, sir?"

"Accompany me to Diagon Alley. I fear that you are unaware of the true wonders of wizard culture. It could persuade you to perhaps reconsider," Severus Snape spoke softly, but the force behind his voice left no doubt in Harry's mind that this was not a man with whom to be trifled. It would be in his best interest the grant him this wish. Still, he doubted that Petunia would give him leave without any prompting.

"I doubt that I will reconsider, sir, but I will come with you. May I ask permission first, sir?"

Severus Snape inclined his head in response, and he followed the scrawny boy as he scampered toward the kitchen, presumably to ask for permission from his aunt. Severus figured that he would quite enjoy the look on old Tuney's face when she realized who her nephew allowed into her home.

Since the boy had opened the door, questions pervaded Severus's mind. The Potter boy, unlike his father, was polite and calculating, considering his responses carefully before speaking. His hand appeared to be a concerning matter, wrapped in a rag of a shirt but seeming to cause the boy no pain. Similarly, this slim stature worried Severus. A baby kneazle could have broken any one of his bones, but then, his father and mother had both been on the thin side. It was most likely just genetics. Headmaster Dumbledore would not have placed The Boy Who Lived with anyone less than an adoring family. Severus sneered at that. How could the old fool permit Lily's son to be raised by mere muggles? Stonewall High indeed!

Harry entered the kitchen with trepidation, knowing that his request would be met with nothing but scorn. They would not hurt him in front of any witnesses, but once the man had gone, Harry was sure he would wish to be dead. After all, after his outburst, anything Harry did was considered disgraceful and punishable by a good beating. Hesitantly, Harry approached his aunt who was pretending to 'fix' the lunch he had prepared for Dudley.

"Ma'am?" Harry spoke, his head bowed.

Petunia glanced up at him, angered by his interruption, when she noticed the black figure standing in her doorway. His expression appeared rather stormy, but she would have known those eyes-and that overly large nose-anywhere. That slimy Snape boy had the audacity to enter _her_ house! That nasty boy must've let him in, she figured, but after catching his expression, she decided it was best to punish the whelp later. There was no telling what the dark man would do to her family.

"What?" She snapped.

Harry winced at her tone, knowing how difficult it would be to cover the abuse he suffered if she did not cooperate. "I was wondering if it might be possible for me to accompany Professor Snape to London. He needs my help with labor, you see. He knows that I work for no pay." That would please her. If she thought that he would be working for Severus Snape, and that it would make him miserable, perhaps she would allow him to go. Besides, it was not uncommon for a child to work for someone without pay. Surely, lots of people Harry's age did it. Severus Snape would not suspect a thing. Harry glanced at the man in black robes, watching perceptively as his gaze grew more predatory when locked on Petunia. It was almost as though Severus Snape could see through her.

"Mr. Potter," Severus Snape began, but he maintained a steady glare on Petunia.

"Yes, sir?" Harry knew better than to look anywhere other than the person whom he was addressing. To avert one's gaze is to appear guilty or disrespectful, if, of course, one is a child addressing an adult and if said child is Harry Potter.

"Please explain why there is a rag wrapped around your hand."

Had Harry not had experience in lying to hide the abuse he suffered, he would have winced. Somehow, in the confusion of the afternoon, he had forgotten that his hand was badly injured and poorly dressed. It had not occurred to him that Severus Snape would notice. He could have kicked himself for his obliviousness. Unfortunately, it was time for Harry to scramble for an excuse. The old "I fell" trick wouldn't work on Severus Snape, Harry was sure.

"I was cooking, sir. I enjoy cooking, you see, but I am rather clumsy. I was chopping up meat for a stew and I was not taking proper care. The knife slipped and gave me a nasty slice on my palm," Harry explained. Although the lie was fabricated, it seemed rather plausible to Harry. He could only hope that Severus Snape agreed with his assessment.

"I see," Severus Snape's tone did not sound entirely convinced, contradicting his words. "And why have you not been to see a Healer yet? My apologies, I meant 'doctor.'"

Despite the man's apology, Harry very much doubted that his slip was a mistake. It seemed rather intentional, as if he were trying to prove some sort of point. Harry decided not to pursue the theory. It would only lead to punishment for his cheek.

"Ma'am is quite adept with healing, sir," Harry explained. He knew the man would harbor doubts, seeing as his hand was poorly wrapped in a dirty shirt, but he hoped the man would not ask questions. "The doctor would do nothing she could not."

"She stitched your wound adequately?" Still, the man's gaze did not drop from Petunia.

"I did, indeed," Petunia sniffed. To Harry, she appeared indignant. Common people, Harry knew, were quite illogically prideful about their behavior. Unfortunately for Petunia, her indignation implied guilt, because if she had done what Harry had claimed she did, she would have no cause for defense. "Harry," the Freak nearly stumbled in shock at hearing his name from her lips, "you may accompany the man. Be back before supper." Harry did not delude himself into thinking that he would actually eat tonight, but he knew he must keep up appearances.

"Yes, ma'am."

Harry's was perplexed. The professor had, without much conversation, dragged Harry to the train station, shuffled through money as if it had been the first time he'd seen it, and brought him aboard the train. Harry supposed he wasn't the first child to board a train, though it was a first time for him. In fact, it was his first time visiting London as well. Of course, he knew where everything was in London-he had memorized maps in his free time when he was seven-but he had never actually been there. The professor had asked Harry how he knew that they would be traveling to London, but Harry had explained that it was a lucky guess. He never imagined he would have been correct. There was no such place as a Diagon Alley in London, Harry was certain.

It had occurred to Harry back at the Dursleys that the man might be abducting him, in which case he should try to garner the attention of the authorities. However, something about the situation didn't add up, and it didn't make sense for Severus Snape to abduct him if his mother trusted him. Additionally, Harry decided that even a kidnapper would be better than the Dursleys.

The train ride, as spectacular as it was, did not perplex Harry nearly as much as what he found after it. Severus Snape grasped Harry's arm tightly, which surprised him because it didn't hurt the way it did when Uncle Vernon grabbed him, and led him through the bustling streets of London. Harry took stock of his surroundings in case, by some chance, he might need to run away. If this was an abduction, he would need to know where he was and where to go in order to escape. He passed a bookstore called Hatchards, which Harry recognized. It had been founded by John Hatchard in 1797, and it was currently owned by Waterstones. Harry knew he would remember that shop should he be required to run. Severus Snape pulled him along once again.

They soon arrived at a...pub? Harry almost reminded Severus Snape that he was eleven, but he figured the man already knew that. Therefore, the man must not be bringing him to London merely for sight-seeing in Diagon Alley. A pub implied a social visit of some sort, but Harry could not legally drink, and could not participate in many of the activities he had heard from the Dursleys about pubs. It was highly likely that they lied about most of the activities, but Harry had no desire to discover if they were true. Still, he did not protest as the man dragged him into the Leaky Cauldron. _Pewter, standard size 2,_ his mind supplied.He thought it was an odd name for a pub, but he had no reference to which to defer, so he figured it was better not to question it.

As soon as they entered the pub, Harry noticed something was off. Not only did the name of the pub recall that letter, which he carried with him, but everyone inside the pub dressed in costumes like those of the victorian era, bearing a strong resemblance to Edmond Dantès in attire. A man, short and stocky in stature, pulled a long stick from inside his out-of-date cloak and pointed it at a coin on the table. Inexplicably, the coin shifted into a glass which, of course, was not possible. Harry reminded himself of facts, rattling off scientific laws which he knew could not be broken. Mass in an isolated system can neither be created or destroyed by chemical or physical means. The coin, presumably bronze due to its appearance, cannot shift into a glass cup. Bronze is an alloy of copper, a mixture of copper and other metals, often tin. Bronze, while not strictly one element, cannot shift physical and chemical properties under any circumstances, even in an open system. In theory, perhaps nuclear transmutation could cause such a change, but such science had only been used in weaponry and biology, as far as Harry was aware. Of course, in regard to theories of alchemy and such, nuclear chemistry could be utilized to rearrange atomic nuclei and create a physical change, but not a chemical one. Even if nuclear chemistry, through some enormous breakthrough in science, could have changed the bronze coin into a glass, it could not be done simply by waving a stick at it.

Harry's eyes widened fractionally. "Sir, what occurred there?" Harry asked, unable to contain his disbelief.

"To what do you refer?" Severus Snape responded, a smirk growing on his lips as he observed the child's wonder at his first exposure to magic.

"That man wielded a stick and caused a chemical and physical change in a bronze coin. Could you please explain the science, sir?"

"Ah, yes. That, Mr. Potter, is not science. Well, at least it is not the science to which you are accustomed. That was a branch of magic known as transfiguration. You are familiar with the word, I assume?" Severus Snape turned toward Harry, speaking quietly lest the other patrons notice the two of them. He had the distinct notion that Mr. Potter would not accept a simple explanation for the events he was soon to see, and he wished to address his question about Transfiguration before they entered the magic world. Surreptitiously casting a wandless Notice Me Not spell, the professor leaned toward his soon-to-be student to explain.

"Yes, sir. Transfiguration is the complete alteration of form or appearance of an object or person, typically transforming into a more beautiful state. However, science does not support transfiguration, unless you refer to ancient chemistry in which alchemy was a common practice. Post nineteenth century, alchemy was disproved and labeled as pseudoscience."

"You are, in a sense, correct, Mr. Potter. Muggles have disproved the practice of transfiguration and alchemy; however, there are a great many things concerning science and matter that muggles simply do not know. For example, muggles, despite their research and effort, remain ignorant of the science of the mind, which they have coined 'psychology.' Although several wizard scientists have used that term, the science of the mind is normally referred to as Occlumency and Legilimency. Many witches and wizards study Occlumency and Legilimency, but very few apply it. In order to practice said branch of study, one must first understand the theory and science behind it, which of course requires magic. As such, muggles could not hope to comprehend the science of the mind because it involves too much magic."

"But, sir, how can magic exist? Every law of science opposes its theory."

"Every _muggle_ law of science, I do believe. You, Mr. Potter, will grow to love magic as you appear so dedicated to knowledge. Perhaps you will find yourself in Ravenclaw. Magic is quite simply an extension of muggle science. Muggles are extremely intelligent, given the facts with which they are provided. However, they seem to draw conclusions prematurely. In explanation for your original inquiry, Transfiguration is a branch of magical science."

"With all due respect, sir, that seems a bit paradoxical."

"Mr. Potter, you do not know what you do not know. Please, refrain from interruption," Severus Snape sneered, though his voice was polite enough, if a bit frustrated. Harry sighed, resigning himself to the patronization adults seemed to favor when speaking to a scrawny eleven-year-old and underestimating his intelligence. "As I was iterating, Transfiguration if a branch of magical science. Muggles nearly reached the proper possibility with the study of alchemy, long ago. As I stated previously, muggles possess a certain degree of weak magic in their blood. They must, because the origins of the wizarding world lie in the biology of muggles. The first wizard was born of a muggle, and procreated with another muggle with a stronger calibre of magic, creating the first half-blood and so on. The minute amount of magic within muggles, long after the creation of the wizarding world, led to muggle experimentation in the magical and spiritual world. Practitioners of alchemy believed that everything on Earth contained a universal spirit and that metals, coming from the earth, were alive and spiritual. They believed that when less valuable metals such as lead were discovered, they were more spiritually immature than gold, the purest form of spirit and metal. Gold was believed to be spiritual perfection. Their quest to change lesser metals into gold was less in search of riches and more in the hope of refining metals and presenting them with a sort of spiritual graduation. As muggles searched for a solution, they grew more in tune with magic. However, their magic was never strong enough to change any metal into gold. Contrary to consensus genitum, their failure had less to do with lack of magical strength and more to do with lack of magical understanding. Metals are not alive. Metals do not possess any sort of spirit. As such, a spiritual graduation is impossible. However, a physical alteration is indeed possible."

"But sir, that was my question. _How,_ exactly, is a physical alteration possible?"

"Patience, Mr. Potter, is a universal virtue in both the muggle and wizarding world. A physical alteration is possible due to magic. Muggles in ancient times, and even now although it is less common, practiced what they believed to be magical rituals. Although the ritualistic processes were largely incorrect, a certain element within them remained consistent with that of the wizarding world. Fire.

"Alchemists recognized four different kinds, or rather levels, of fire: Elementary Fire, Secret Fire, Central Fire, and Celestial Fire. Elementary was simply fire, nothing more. Secret Fire was believed to be contained within the consciousness of alchemists. Central Fire was believed to be manifested within all objects as the fire of creation. Celestial Fire, the purest of all fires, was the fire of the Mind of God. It was in application of these four principle fires that they believed they could change ordinary metal into gold. Conceptually, they were somewhat correct. Fire is the combustion of chemicals with oxygen, but it requires the same energy which we call magic. The creation of fire by muggles involves their minute amount of magic, and the other three kinds of fire are a very basic form of magical theory. Secret Fire is the personal energy required for magic. Central Fire is the outside energy with which your personal energy bonds to produce a magical reaction. Celestial Fire is magic itself, in its purest form, as a sort of universal energy existing as existence. It is with the energy of fire that magic occurs, but it is not exactly spiritual. Wherein lay the issue of alchemy for muggles. It was declared impossible simply because their perspective was impossible, but indeed it is not. Alchemy can, in fact, be carried much further into Transfiguration, in which all of the principles of alchemy are applied in quite the same way," Severus Snape concluded.

The theory behind alchemy and Transfiguration, Severus decided, was incredibly difficult to explain. However, he appreciated the brain of an eleven-year-old who, from the expression on his face, appeared to absorb the new perspective on science tremendously. Severus imagined that the boy had simply never thought that science and magic coexisted and were, in base, quite the same thing. The boy did not appear to require repetition of concepts in order to understand. His eyes, widened and bright with excitement, seemed to hide a mind of whirling ideas and connecting facts. _A paradigm shift,_ Severus Snape thought to himself.

Settled with the rather more detailed explanation on how a wizard turned a knut into a glass, Severus Snape cancelled the Notice Me Not with a wandless _Finite Incantatum_ and patiently waited-or rather hurried with a hope that it wouldn't occur-for the patrons at the Leaky Cauldron to recognize Harry Potter.

Sure enough, Severus had barely taken five steps before Tom, the bartender, called out to him. "Ah, Severus, care for a drink?"

"My apologies, Tom, but I have not the time. I am escorting a muggleborn student to Diagon Alley," Severus replied, providing an abridged explanation in the far-fetched hopes that he would fail to notice the scar. He had not cast a glamour on the marking, knowing the wariness with which the boy regarded magic, although that was prior to his explanation. He regretted his lack of foresight following their discussion.

"Ah, I see. Always protective of the families of your Snakes, aren't you Professor? Well, I always admi- is that Harry Potter?" Tom asked, his voice betraying obvious disbelief. Not only was his tone reverent and excited, but it was also unnecessarily _loud_ , causing the entirety of the Leaky Cauldron to glance in their direct. It seemed that that was all it required for Harry Potter to become an instant celebrity.

The Freak was overwhelmed. In his lifetime, he had experienced great amounts of humiliation and attention. With the Dursleys, Dudley in particular, ridiculing and publicly degrading Harry was a common pastime. Dudley's friends, twisted and misguided bullies, derived pleasure from mocking the physically weaker but intellectually superior. Harry served as target practice. It was not uncommon for him to be sneered at and stared at, smeared and lampooned in as many ways as one could formulate. However, never in his entire existence could Harry recall being venerated in such a way. All eyes in the pub trained on the small eleven-year-old, gazes flicking toward his scar as if he wouldn't notice their curiosity.

"Mr. Potter, it is a great honor to meet you," an awestruck woman broke the silence that had fallen over the crowd. "I'm Doris Crockford. What you did all those years ago-well, it really is an honor. I have been waiting a long time to meet you and-"

Another person, a man this time, interrupted her. It seemed the crowd had broken from their reverie. "Mr. Potter, where have you been? It truly is wonderful to see you. You saved us all. We owe you so much if-"

"Mr. Potter, if ever you need quills, my family owns a small-"

"We're delighted to see you, Mr. Pot-"

"Mr. Potter, I am-"

Harry nearly hyperventilated, insecurity falling over him like a blanket. He tried to remind himself that it was merely his medial prefrontal cortex providing natural responses to an unfamiliar stimulus: positive attention. His insecurity was the result of the activity of that area in his brain, prominent most especially within teens, which he almost was. He reminded himself that it was scientific, psychological, and-

But was it? Occlumency and Legilimency was what Professor Snape had called it, but Harry did not understand that science. He had read nothing on it, despite the plethora of psychology novels and textbooks he regularly perused.

He reminded himself that the science he knew to be factual could not possibly fault, and that it could only expand. Therefore, he knew for a fact that his medial prefrontal cortex was causing his discomfort, followed closely by the psychological and emotional consequences of constant abuse. He knew that, if he knew what caused his uncomfortable sensations, he would be one step closer to ending his discomfort. If he could identify the problem in his brain, he could shut it down.

Slowing his breath, Harry focussed on memory, facts, theories, and things he knew. Information calmed him, in the same way that meditation did for others. If he could recite something from his memory, he could redirect his thought processes from the overwhelming external stimuli, providing introspective peace. If he could calm his thoughts and draw attention away from the outside, then his brain would not conjure distress signals. If his brain would not conjure distress signals, he could return to his mental equilibrium with a sharp, focussed mind as opposed to the emotional, imbalanced mind he then experienced.

 _"But Alai had left something behind. Ender lay in bed, dozing into the night, and felt Alai's lips on his cheek as he muttered the word_ peace. _The kiss, the word, the peace were with him still. I am only what I remember, and Alai is my friend in a memory so intense that they can't tear him out. Like Valentine, the strongest memory of all"_ (Card 171).

When Harry had first read the novel, he placed himself in Ender's position and decided that it was true. He was only what he remembered, a product of memory and little else. After all, without memory, how would one know who he was? If he suddenly awoke with no memory, and someone were to tell him that he was a well-respected businessman, he would likely become a well-respected businessman simply because that was supposed to be what he remembered. Now, he was only an intellectual because he remembered things and could apply them quickly. He remembered Petunia's behavior, and as such, he learned how to manipulate her. He remembered his books, and as such, he knew everything that all of the authors knew. He remembered the world, and as such, he could apply theories and social science, as well as hard science, to the real world. If he had grown up in a loving environment, it was doubtful he would have the reflexes he had. If he had grown up in a celebrity, it was unlikely he would feel as uncomfortable as he did under all the attention from the patrons at the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was simply a product of his memory, and he had no memory of this awe that surrounded him. He shied away from it.

It was quite fortunate for Harry Potter to have found a companion in one of the least sociable men in the wizarding world. Severus Snape, as keen as the Freak to make his excuses and depart from the Leaky Cauldron, utilized his short temper and quick wit to upset the crowd of curious onlookers and quietly slip from sight. With another silent Notice Me Not, Severus Snape glided to the right corner of the pub and broke through a set of weak wards surrounding a drawer. Upon opening the drawer, Severus grasped a set of keys and, in the excitement of Mr. Harry Potter's arrival into the wizarding world, slipped the keys into his voluptuous robes. Harry, who had been observing from his post directly in the center of the confusion, smirked in a barely perceptible way. He did not know exactly what the keys unlocked, but he caught on exactly to the plan. "An overly obese man in the far corners of your establishment attempted to steal your belongings, Tom," Severus conveyed in an even, disinterested tone.

Tom bristled. Harry could tell by his shoddy dress, though cleverly layered to appear lavish, that the man was monetarily lacking. Severus Snape had easily exploited his weakness by explaining the offense in a blunt way for a simple mind to comprehend. Of course, no such offense occurred, but if the lie benefitted the liar, Harry was not opposed to falsehoods, especially if he agreed with the liar.

"What did the thief attempt to steal?"

"I do believe he tried to make off with a set of keys. They were over in that drawer."

Severus Snape brushed invisible lint from his outer garments, seemingly unconcerned with the proceedings surrounding him. Harry was not fooled. He admired the craftsmanship with which Severus Snape carefully displayed himself and his interests. The man, dark and foreboding in nature, was quite knowledgable in social and behavioral science. He knew what battles to chose and exactly how to win. _He is a smart ally to gain._

"My Gringotts key! I could lose everything! Call the Aurors, Severus, and give me a description of the thief. I need that key. I don't need an employee to open my vault, Severus. Just that key. It's all my life savings. Larencia, call the Aurors!" Tom shouted and wailed. Harry could only smirk as he watched Severus raise his eyebrows and suppress a smile.

"That will not be necessary. I did say that a man _attempted_ to steal you possessions. I managed to obstruct him, however, and I do advise you to take more care of your important belongings. Those wards were pitiful, at best. Do take care that this never occurs in the future," Severus Snape sneered. Harry could have laughed at Tom's astonished expression as he plucked the key from Severus' outstretched palm. Harry did not know what Gringotts was, specifically, but he concluded it must be some sort of bank. It must be a rather important bank to hold all of one's life savings. Harry pondered this Gringotts' place in the economy. Banks played a large role in the upkeep of a country. Should citizens lose money to a bank, and as such, lose faith in the abilities of the bank, the banks would fail. If the banks failed and citizens hoarded their money, then the economy failed. If the economy failed in the muggle world, another Great Depression would occur. Of course, Harry was ignorant of the repercussions in the wizarding world. He wondered if perhaps the economy differed. Did countries trade with each other? If so, what did they trade? Could not other countries simply transfigure or conjure anything they might need? Did the wizarding world even have a proper form of government? Was it a monarchy, republic, democracy, or perhaps even anarchy? If wizarding countries did not trade with other countries, where did the wizarding nation receive its income? How could a nation grow wealthy and powerful? Did it rely on taxes alone? If so, what form of public works would wizards institute that would compensate for the government's taxation on its citizens? Could not any wizard simply build something with magic?

Harry decided that magic complicated the natural order of the world. If magic had no limits, what then was the purpose of any form of civil lifestyle?

Harry was broken from his reverie as Tom pledged his debt to Severus, who proceeded to explain that all he and his charge desired was some peace from the crowd. The man happily obliged.

Harry Potter believed in fate. Fate was and always is. Fate dictated the order of the world, but was dictated by the movement of the universe. Fate existed only in the abstract, the intangible. Fate did not exist like the Red String Theory, tying invisible strings between people to predict the future. Fate existed like Oedipus, inevitable because it already happened. In order to understand fate, Harry figured, one must understand time.

Time did not occur in the past-present-future context which humans have long accepted. Albert Einstein theorized-correctly-that the past and the future both occurred in the present, and that the present was dictated by movement and distance in what he called spacetime. Earth's time might be different from that of a planet millions of billions of miles away in the universe, according to the movement of theoretical beings. Mozart, according to this alien, might still be alive. The Declaration of Independence might have just been signed. An Amargasaurus might have just eaten a meal. With a slight change in direction, humans might have just landed on Mars. Teleportation might have been achieved. Harry's hand might be completely healed. One could never know what point in time it might be according to this theoretical alien, so one must act as if this alien is studying one from history. One must remember that his life is insignificant, and yet creates a ripple effect if removed. One must remember that order comes from chaos comes from time comes from space.

One must wonder where in time that places him.

In any event, according to this version of time, fate existed simply because time occurred all at once in snapshots. Fate was not dictated by the actions of man, because the actions of man have no effect on the continuum. Everything one does, they have already done, and they will continue doing forever depending on from whence in the universe one observes. As such, the moment Harry took his first step into Diagon Alley, he knew that time had planned this, booked this, and that this had occurred.

He knew that he would always be gazing at Madam Malkin's shop and that he would always smell that musty scent inherently belonging to business. He knew that everything he did had always happened. He humored the idea that he would comprehend it more as it continued to repeat itself, even as he knew that was irrational because time would never change.

With practiced ease, Harry resisted the urge to widen his eyes in wonder at the colors and splendor that surrounded him. The furthering of science-he refused to call it magic-showed itself in every corner of his periphery. Adults waved sticks and bags shrunk, objects floated, and lights appeared. Harry observed that no child performed this science, concluding that it must be dangerous, like mixing chemicals without knowledge of their properties or how they might react together.

No one else seemed all too surprised by the colors and _science_ around them, even as Harry attempted to apply the defiances of physics he witnessed to what he already knew. Wind resistance must surely factor into how the broom in the shop window zoomed about with no visible aid from strings or air currents. He tried to understand it, yet he seemed to be the only person doing so. Everyone else appeared completely absorbed in their everyday tasks, without taking a moment to wonder what energy those sticks possessed in order to defy gravity in such a way that only electromagnetism and opposite force was known to do. As always, Harry appeared to be the only one actually curious about the universe, knowing how temporary life was, and that he could not possibly understand the whole world-let alone the universe-in one lifetime. That wouldn't stop him from trying, though, because many scientists in history believed the same thing, but their accomplishments brought humans one step closer to finally understanding everything.

That is until Professor Snape shattered the illusion that fact was fact and not partial truth.

Harry would need to reanalyze, reevaluate, and recalculate _everything_ he thought he had known. Nicolaus Copernicus studied Ptolomy's theory of the universe, with Earth as the universe's motionless center. Copernicus decided that Ptolomy was mistaken, and developed a theory of a heliocentric universe by using nothing but his eyes to study the positions of the stars, noting how they seemed to move. He theorized that the Earth and every subsequent planet rotated on an axis around the Sun, and that the Earth completed a full rotation in one 24-hour day, with Earth's motion affected human's view of the heavens. Galileo proved that Copernicus was, in fact, correct by applying mathematics and the newly developed telescope to his knowledge and observations of astronomy. These were facts; history and science blended in a suitable manner so that Harry could understand them.

Harry understood Einstein's theory of general relativity. He understood how the tides of consciousness applied to artificial intelligence. He understood how _e_ raised to the _i_ multiplied by pi created a function. Harry did not understand how the universe could so bury the existence of unimaginable science which no one seemed _willing_ to understand.

So it was that when Harry stepped-one foot in front of the other-following Severus Snape through Diagon Alley that Harry attempted to commit everything to memory for later evaluation. He knew that the enemy of memories was other memories, so he instructed his neurons not to replace this one with an insignificant one. To him, even the color of a cauldron in a window might change his whole perspective on the wizarding world, not dissimilar to a Butterfly Effect.

So it was that when Severus Snape guided Harry past a group of boys fawning over a Nimbus Two Thousand-at least, that is what they called it-to a snow-colored building decorated with elaborate bronze doors, untarnished by time and towering over the staggered buildings surround it, that Harry froze the image in his mind. Gringotts. His eyes caught twice on the creature standing guard beside the bronze door.

"A Goblin," Severus Snape supplied. "They are considered unpleasant company, though they are quite efficient in their duties of safeguarding and managing money, stocks, and possessions."

"Sir," Harry spoke, "could you explain the differences between muggle and...wizard economics?"

Severus Snape smiled tightly, his eyes shining as he marveled at what it would be like to have a supremely intelligent and infinitely curious student in his House. "I would, Mr. Potter, but that is a conversation for another day. I am afraid we have not the time to discuss the intricate details of economics in today's society."

Harry nodded, understanding the intricacies of politics and economics, as well as the relationship between the two. Of course, a simple trip to the...bank did not warrant such an enormous discussion, despite Harry's interest.

"Another day then, sir," Harry replied.

The journey to Harry's Gringotts vault, though bumpy, passed fairly uneventfully. Not a single Goblin reacted to the presence of Harry Potter, which relieved the Freak, and he was rather interested in the mechanics of their trip down to the vault. Well, at least he thought he had been interested in mechanics. However, he hadn't realized true interest in anything in the wizarding world until he saw his Gringotts vaults.

Heaps of money-or at least in the further-science world-piled in stacks and mounds, jewels and artifacts littered the ground and decorated the walls. Draperies and carpets livened the space until it appeared more homely than the Dursleys.

The Dursleys.

The implications rushed at him almost immediately when he saw his fortune. He could never tell a living soul. He must always wear rags, buying only cheap items, and shop like the orphaned scum he always believed he was because if ever the Dursleys found this, he could end up with absolutely no inheritance but the name with which he was born. This vault, and all of its contents, must remain hidden.

"Professor, may I ask you not to mention what you have seen here to anyone else?" Harry requested, feigning boredom so as to not seem suspicious. The professor glanced at him, assessing his body language for reasons why a Potter would not lord his riches over poor souls like he himself had been when James Potter was his rival. Severus Snape squinted, recognizing Slytherin disinterest in the young man, and admiring that trait. He would surely do well in his House, should that be his destiny.

"Of course, Mr. Potter. You and I will be the only wizards with a full extent of knowledge about this vault. I advise you not to remove too much money. This must be enough to last you seven years of education, as well as some time to find an apprenticeship afterwards."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. Without knowledge of the costs of the items on the Hogwarts list, Harry allowed himself a certain amount of leeway by gathering more money than perhaps strictly necessary by his own estimation. He knew he could have inquired about the prices, but he disliked how ignorant such questions would sound to the professor. After all, if the man had grown up in this world, how idiotic must questions sound from children not as scientifically knowledgable?

After their excursion to Gringotts, Harry felt as if his whole world shifted on its axis. Of course, such a phenomenon was not possible without the subsequent death of every sentient being in said world as distance from the sun was paramount to survival. However, acquiring the money required to purchase _magical_ items validated the existence of such an otherworldly society. Striding down the streets of Diagon Alley, Professor Snape appeared entirely in his element and respectable; whereas, Harry felt so thrust into a world in which he did not belong that it seemed almost sacrilegious to examine any shop or creature as anything other than fictitious imagination. As Harry stood in the way of a bustling wizard, he momentarily thought the man would simply pass right through him, the way an intangible idea might.

Therefore, as the professor led Harry into the first shop they were to visit, the Freak felt as if the walls were closing in on him. As he stepped inside, he realized that the title Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was truly representational of the shop itself. Robes adorned every wall, fluorescent colors as well as drab shades highlighting the curvatures of the establishment. Other customers flicked through the decorative clothing, admiring the well-made materials and scoffing at the prices. Harry felt well out of his depth as Severus Snape guided Harry towards the back of the robes shop, "You will need to be fitted, Mr. Potter. Hogwarts students are not issued a uniform to be outgrown within one year."

The raven haired boy followed the professor, eyes catching on the bright fabrics surrounding him so that he almost didn't notice the other boy being fitted. The boy, strikingly handsome Harry noticed, wore expensive-looking robes and an impatient expression. His hair, blonde and shining, was slicked back from his face in an appealing style. What struck Harry the most, however, were the eyes exuberantly standing out from the pale, smooth skin of his face. They shined with a misty grey, like the color of sea foam as it drifted ashore. Despite Harry's vivid memory and unrivaled intelligence by anyone his age, he simply could not remember ever seeing anyone so beautiful in his life.

Had he not been so wrapped up in his thoughts concerning the attractive boy across from him, he would have noticed Madam Malkin bustling around to service _Harry Potter_ and fussing over his measurements, as well as the measurements of the boy.

Although he was quite entranced by the boy's features, nothing could have prepared him for the moment the boy actually spoke to him. "Irritating, isn't it?" The boy said, "I hate getting fitted. Father says a proper wizard must always look his best, and that robes cast a certain impression one would not want to disturb. It's such a pain, though." When Harry did not respond, too awed by the fact that a boy his age had actually wanted to speak with _him_ , the boy continued. "Are you preparing for Hogwarts, too?"

It nearly did not register that this boy had actually asked him a question, but when it did, Harry answered immediately, "Yes, I am."

"Me, too. I suppose I'll see you there. I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. What's your name?"

"My name is Harry. Harry Potter."


End file.
